


Paradigm shift

by WorriedWarrior_Izzy



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Stargate Universe
Genre: Aromantic, Asexuality, Established Relationship, F/M, grey romantic, grey sexual, past loves mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 11:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5415923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorriedWarrior_Izzy/pseuds/WorriedWarrior_Izzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it started with:<br/>Simply having company; being allowed to be; sharing ideas; a hug, a hair ruffle; Just to be, without restrictions, without precautions, without limitations, without restrictions; Just being, and not being lonely; Tender but raw and open and honest, blind, painful, healing; exploring that simplicity with blade sharp edges and   abysses to deep to ever hit ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paradigm shift

_What it started with:_

  
Simply having company; being allowed to be; sharing ideas; being grounded; being accepted; dodging thoughts; ramble and rant without judgement; skin contact in the most innocent ways, a hug, a hair ruffle; listening to someone’s breathing just calmingly; the rustling of fabric in the night; skin whispering against skin; knowing the value of listening to another heartbeat, knowing that right now, right there, You are; Just to be, without restrictions, without precautions, without limitations, without restrictions; Just being, and not being lonely; Tender but raw and open and honest, blind, painful, healing; exploring that simplicity with blade sharp edges and   abysses to deep to ever hit ground.

And now:

 

**Paradigm shift**

Sometimes you just need someone to let you rant and ramble, tell you you’re not as horrible as you think you are, to still love you all the same afterwards.  
  
She wakes him when having nightmares, he won’t be upset about it, he’ll brush the sweaty ringlets off her check and shoo her closer, put his arms around her and hold her close. She’s safe there, because nothing can go haunt her there, in the sacred save space between his arms and warm chest, where the soft beating of his heart will lull her back to sleep.  
They’ll wake up entangled. Safe and warm. And they won’t talk much. Mornings aren’t for talking. They’re the time to snap the bones back into the right places, for stretching and yawning and embracing the fleeing pastels of hazy dreams. Fabric whispering and water dribbling down from brown locks, soaking into day time armoury. It’s a time of washed out colours, soft shapes and smiles, telltale crinkles and muffled sounds. Shared Space. Tempus Transit. Last check, a hand touching, a hug. Starting the day.  
  
Some days they lace their words with venom and ram them into the soft places, the fatal spots. They’ll rage and scream and irrationally lash out at everyone and themselves. They’ll hideaway in numbers and pages and forgotten corridors until entering the same constellation again.  
They take walks. Discovering nooks and rooms all about the ship, some of which they share with the other crew members, though the gazing openings and silent corners belong to them only. They’re for ranting, and mulling things over, for apologising and plotting, for discovering new things about themselves. Trusting. Honesty. Words like weeds, breaking through layers and layers of walls and mine field areas and abandoned places.  
Sometimes the anchor needed from numbers drowning his mind is a cup of water placed near him, the rustling of pages in the corner, her breathing.

  
Some days tears fall. The most surprising to him are the ones during shared laugher, breathless gasping, tingling in his core. There the freeing, flowing, puffy tears of hers, when everything is too tight, too tangled, too open, too pressuring, too much. She needs acceptance then, holding, soft whispered reassurances that crumbling and collapsing is not weakness, its okay, he’s here; she’s the strongest person he’s ever met. Thumb drawing circles on her shoulder blades, sweet nonsense. Letting her thin frame crawl into him, storing her pieces safely, till she’s coming back.  
There are twin waters of sadness, shed at odd hours when loss hits home. Where feeling overwhelmed resides. Where there’s violins’ playing in the distance, Gloria’s eyes wandering over his skin. Herbs and spices fill her nose and a wheel creaks, deafening her. Where hurting and agony battle, leaving no energy reserves for movements. Sometimes touch brings them back. Sometimes humming a tune that a little girl picking flowers once sung in fields, worlds from where they are. Cuddling and mumbled words. Missing buried could have been’s.  
Dancing between tender and raw, open and honest, blinding and painful, euphoric, healing; exploring that simplicity on blade sharp edges with abysses too deep to ever hit ground.  
  
Colours are bleeding into each other, fading out. Dust dances in the glowy light. Lazy fingers are tracing patterns on warm, fabric clad, skin. Breathing. Lashes fluttering open. Whispering against the cheek they come resting on again. Timeout. Limb bones. All tension is gone. All guards down. Fingers lightly scratching, sneaking into his hair. Pressure in the right places. Headache relief. Violin sounds and straw dust smells linger in the corners. They don’t touch yet. But they’re close today. Other days follow.  
  
Just to be. In the great wide somewhere, thousands of light years away from places that have long lost the security of being homes, they have learned, they are learning what that means. I am. It is a complete sentence. A feeling. A kind of clarity, very near to peace. Company in a way they’d never thought of finding. Being. 

**Author's Note:**

> Massive Thanks @nerdfishgirl for checking this over and dicussing the thing from idea to being wrote down.


End file.
